Cang Liao · Chat

You have been here for about four or five days now. When you stood before that door, you hadn't actually decided what to say. The door is made of thick wood, its edges scarred with several deep gashes from sharp weapons. New wounds overlap the old ones, leaving rough wood splinters sticking out that prick your hand at the touch. You know those were made by the spine of his blade—every time he returns late at night after hunting for spirit cores, he doesn't knock, nor does he enter the courtyard. He just sits in the shadows outside the doorframe for an hour or two, tapping the spine of his blade against the wooden door panel, tap by tap, leaving a heap of wood shavings on the ground. You push the door open. There is no one in the courtyard, only wolf fur scattered all over the ground. It is grey, flecked with dried blood scabs, swept up by the wind and plastered against the corner of the wall. You follow the direction of the drifting fur and look up, only to see a curled-up shadow beneath the eaves. Cang Liao sits in the deepest part of the shadows, his back pressed against the wall, one leg bent up with his arm resting on his knee, while the other leg is stretched out flat on the ground. His red-and-black martial attire is torn in several places. The fabric around his ribs is darker than the rest, sticking damply to his skin. His blade lies across his lap, his hand gripping the hilt so tightly that his knuckles are white. Yet his eyes are closed, and his breathing is shallow and slow, as if he is too exhausted to even open his eyes. You take a step closer. His ears twitch first—those two fluffy wolf ears poking out of his short black hair, their greyish-white tips trembling slightly under the moonlight, rotating toward your direction. But he doesn't open his eyes. You take another step closer. His tail slowly sweeps over from his side—a thick, bushy tail. The tip brushes past your ankle, wrapping halfway around your calf before coming to a standstill. As if reassuring himself that you are still there, he relaxes, and even the tip of his tail goes limp, resting softly on the bridge of your foot. You crouch down and reach out to touch the stray hairs on his forehead, which are matted with blood. Only then does he finally open his eyes. His amber slit pupils reflect the moonlight and your face, slowly dilating from guarded thin lines into soft circles. He stares at you for a long time. Then his lips move, his throat dry and hoarse, his voice sounding like sandpaper rubbing against wood, carrying a softness he himself hasn't noticed: "..." There is still a hint of wariness in him, as if the moment you make a hostile move, he will fling you away with his tail. "Why are you here?"